


The 69th Hunger Games

by RecalMaine



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Original Work
Genre: 69th Hunger Games, Caelum Walkinshaw, District 3, District Three, Original Character - Freeform, The Capitol, the hunger games - Freeform, thg
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-04 19:35:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5346062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RecalMaine/pseuds/RecalMaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's time for the 69th annual Hunger Games. One boy and one girl between the ages of 12 and 18 will be reaped from the 12 districts that make up the nation of Panem to compete in a death match on national television. The male tribute from District 3 is sixteen year old Caelum Walkinshaw, and the odds are definitely against him. Will Caelum manage to swing them in his favor and survive the scorching desert he's been thrust into? Or will he become one of the hundreds of kids killed for Capitol entertainment?<br/>-------------------------<br/>Hunger Games fanfiction. Full of OC's with some characters from the trilogy. Takes place before the events of the books/movies but I have done my best to be faithful to the canon of the Hunger Games universe. That is why I chose the 69th games. When I was thinking of this story, I imagined the arena in the desert. It was convenient that it is briefly mentioned in the book that the 69th Games took place in a desert so I decided I'd just set it then! The title is subject to change if I think of a better one. This is my first attempt ever at writing fanfiction so I would really appreciate any criticism and/or advice. Thank you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at writing fanfiction, so I would really appreciate any advice. This was originally posted on Wattpad, but I think I like AO3 better. In the first three chapters, I tried really hard to emulate Suzanne Collin's writing style. As I progress, I am going to try to write less like her and more like myself. Hopefully it will still be decent lol.

Chapter One

 

   Urrrnt. Urrrnt. Urrrnt. Urr- The sound of the buzzing is silenced by a thud, which I know to be my brother’s hand coming down upon the snooze button of our alarm clock. The only light in our small, shared bedroom comes from the green numbers on the clock that sits on the bedside table that rests between our beds. It reads 6:01 AM. Both awake now, we lay in silence until Truss works up the will to crawl out of his bed, shuffle the small distance to the switch, and turn on the lights.

   “Come on,” I protest, pulling my blanket over my head to block out the light. “It’s not like we have to go to school today.”

   “You”- he rips the blanket off me- “come on.” I shiver as the cold assaults my flesh, narrowing my brown eyes up at my brother before climbing out of bed.

   This is our usual, goodnatured morning banter, but it’s different this time. The words are more forced. Truss’s noogie to my unruly brown hair is rougher than usual. Still in our sleep shorts and shirts, we slink out of our bedroom, down the short, narrow hallway with its peeling and faded wallpaper, and into our adjoined living room and kitchen. The sound of bacon sizzling and its warm, redolent scent filling my family’s apartment is another indicator that this day is different than the rest.

   “Good morning, boys!” Comes our mother’s greeting as she smiles over her shoulder at us from where she stands at the stove.

   A perfunctory morning in the Walkinshaw house consists of a bowl of grits, a cup of tea, and rushed goodbyes as we all leave for the day. My brother and I leave for school shortly after my parents leave for work.

   We are all employed at one of the twelve factories that make up District 3, making PCB boards. After school, Truss and I join my parents at the factory and at the end of the day we all finally return home. Our skin, our clothes, and even our home holds the acrid, metallic stink of solder paste. Sometimes I wonder if instead of blood coming out, I would bleed that gray paste instead.

    My whole family works hard so Truss and I never have to take out tesserae. Any child can apply for tesserae as many times as they want, which is a meager supply of canned foods and bottles of water that is supposed to get one person through the year. In exchange, they are given extra entries for the reaping.

    All four of us pick up any shifts at the factory we can. We’ve all worked there our whole lives and once we are done with school, my brother and I will start working there full time like my parents. It’s difficult work to make ends meet and we are all constantly exhausted. If one looked at my family, they might assume that dark bags under our eyes was simply a genetic trait. We always manage to scrape by though. My parents are quite proud of the fact that their children have never had to apply for tesserae.

   On this special day though, all of District 3 is in a moratorium. Today is Reaping Day. Truss and I sat at our square dining table with our father, his face buried in the newspaper.

   “No grits today!” I declare, a false, wide smile plastered on my lips. My sarcastically gleeful tone earned a sharp look from my mother, my brother hissing “Caelum-” under his breath. My father’s face remains hidden behind the paper.

   My parents have vastly different ways of dealing with Reaping Day. Different ways of dealing with the possibility that either one of their sons could be carted off to a death match that would be televised across the nation for all to see.

   My mother, who was a jovial woman with a head of tight brown curls, acted even more so on Reaping Day. Her attitude came close to that of Felix Stroeder, the sickeningly enthusiastic man who came to escort the unfortunate boy and girl who would be reaped today to the Capitol. Unlike Felix, who truly believed the Capitol sewage that he spouted, my mother’s ‘Happy Citizen of Panem’ mask had cracks in it. Like the sharp look she had just given me for my comment. Like the way her face paled as we left our apartment to attend the ceremony in the District Cynosure and her lips drew together in a tight line. Like the way she cried quietly once we were back home every year. I think she only acts so happy to try to lessen our own worry. I would rather see her get mad about the whole ordeal like everyone else really is, but I didn’t dare voice this aloud. I appreciate her effort anyway.

   My father, like my mother, was a happy although ragged man. He handled Reaping Day much differently though. Most of the day was spent in silence for him. He seemed to be simply going through the motions, with some coaxing from my mother to help him along the way.

   Old photo albums showed my father, much thinner, younger, and with more hair, with my grandparents and a young girl I have never met. She had looked just like him. The large nose my father, and myself, had, the dark brown hair, the thick eyebrows and ashen skin. She had looked maybe a few years older than my young father... And then one year she disappeared from the photos. I have never heard anyone in my family mention this mysterious girl, but I could only assume she had something to do with my father’s annual, stony withdrawal from the world.

   Or maybe she has nothing to do with it and he just can’t stomach the thought of any child being carted off to their death. It was anyone’s guess, really.

   We eat our breakfast in silence, the only sound being our forks clinking against our plates. It’s ironic because we save our best food for the day when we have the least appetite.

   Truss and I then shower together to conserve water before changing. We dress our best on Reaping Day and I even attempt to comb my hair, managing to make it look halfway decent. Our reaping outfits are identical: gray slacks, worn belts and shoes, and long sleeved, white button down shirts. Mine are baggy since they are hand me downs from Truss, who is the same height as me but broader.

   I am sixteen and he is two years my senior, so that means this is his last chance to be reaped for the Hunger Games.

   “We’ll be back by noon,” I call as Truss and I walk out the door. We walk through the dim hallway to the elevator, descend to the lobby, and then we are outside finally.

   District 3 is always humming. Even with all the factories closed for the day, the place never sleeps. It is a living, breathing entity that seems to vibrate at all hours, restless and awake but somber. Being the third largest district, most of our population is crowded into towering, gray apartment buildings.

   The sky is perpetually gray with smog and plant life is a rare sight here. It isn’t uncommon to see citizens walking around wearing cheap surgical masks, as if the papery material will protect them from the pollution that infects our lungs.

   There is one ‘nature park’ in all District 3, but I use the term loosely. Despite being one of the few locations with trees and flowers and even a fountain dedicated to all those who lost their lives in the Dark Days, the grassy meadow is one of the deadest places in the district. We have a lot of things here in District 3 that a lot of other districts don’t, but spare time isn’t one of them.

   The clouds hang low in the sky today as Truss and I walk down the near empty streets, neither of us speaking until we reach our usual haunt.

   The hours of our lives we don’t spend at school, work, or sleeping, we usually spend in a narrow alleyway between two apartment buildings down the street from ours.

   “Hey- look who it is! We didn’t think you guys were gonna show up today!” A familiar voice calls as we approach.

   Three other kids already sit against the alley wall, all of them smoking cigarettes. The one who had spoken is a round faced boy named Apoc, who is with two girls named Niobe and Switch. He is one of the wealthier members of District 3 and also the one who always manages to procure cigarettes for us.

        Niobe and Truss are in the same grade and so are Apoc and I. Switch is fifteen and the youngest among us.

   “Happy Hunger Games,” says Switch, a pretty girl with long, dark hair that reaches down her back as she raised her cigarette to us in greeting.

   “Happy Hunger Games to you too,” I return as my brother and I sit. We receive our cigarettes from Apoc and are passed a lighter from Niobe, a tall girl with buckteeth and dark skin.

   “Think one of us will be reaped this year?” Truss asks casually before taking a long drag of his cigarette, coughing, and then exhaling a large, gray cloud.

  Apoc hummed in thought before speaking. “We have a population of… What? 200,000 people? Maybe 40,000 of us are reap-able-”

   “Our odds are better than the kids in Twelve at least,” Niobe interrupts. “I can’t even imagine living in a district that small.” Her nose wrinkled in disgust as she spoke.

   “I’d want cigarettes to kill me before I’d let the Capitol do it,” came Switch’s acrimonious remark, which earns nods of assent from the rest of us.

   “If I get reaped, I’m gonna rip Felix’s wig off,” I declare rebelliously, a small grin tugging at the corners of my lips.

   “As if, Caelum!” Apoc scoffs at me with a roll of his eyes. “You’d cry like a baby.”

   “Hey, I would too,” Truss said, silencing us all for a moment as we each avert our gazes in a different direction.

   Every Reaping Day we do this, like some sort of tradition. Huddle in our little alleyway, spew our rebellious thoughts… And then go to the District Cynosure and check in, stand in place, clap on cue...

   The thought makes me sick.

   Disappearances in District 3 are a weekly thing. Our Peacekeepers aren’t an overt, brutal force like they are in some of the other districts… Instead, they offer an ominous, surreptitious presence here. Which, sometimes, I think is worse.

   Their stark white uniforms are always lingering in the corner of your eye, just barely  in your peripheral vision but enough to remind you that they are there.

   We never dare speak our treacherous thoughts louder than we are now in the seclusion of our alley. People who speak above a whisper are usually gone within a fortnight. Accused of conspiring against the Capitol and the nation of Panem or inciting rebellious thoughts or actions.

   I sometimes speculate that perhaps Peacekeepers, and not the Games, had something to do with the mysterious girl in my father’s old photographs.

   “I wish they’d just let us kill each other instead of making us sing and dance for them too…” I mutter, finally breaking the silence.

   “Right? If I got reaped, I wouldn’t put on a show for them. Only the people in the Capitol and maybe some of their lapdog districts actually believe what the tributes say,” Niobe agrees before coughing on cigarette smoke, referring to the Career districts.

  Districts 1, 2, and 4 are full of people who earnestly enjoy the Games. Their children fight for the opportunity to enter the arena and spend most of their lives training for it. Every year they have volunteers, whereas I have never seen anyone volunteer in District 3 in my life.

  “Look on the brightside, huh? At least you and Truss don’t have to worry about it next year,” I point out before taking my own turn to cough on smoke, my eyes watering and the back of my throat itching.

    I don’t even like smoking, but I do it anyway. There’s some small, petty sense of satisfaction in poisoning myself. It stems from the fact that this is a pain that the Capitol cannot inflict upon me, but only I can inflict upon myself. It’s taking control of my own destruction.

   This goes on for a few more hours. A couple more kids join us in our alleyway too. We all finish our cigarettes and twist the smoldering stubs that remain into the cold, dirty pavement on which we sit. The same things are whispered year after year: how the Games are a ploy to keep the districts divided, how tesserae act as a conduit for further division within each district, how the vagarious nature of the reaping process keeps the citizens of Panem feeling desultory, powerless, and diffident, and therefore incapable of rising up efficiently.

   Sometimes we come up with cleverer ways of saying the same things we always say, which makes us feel a bit more righteous and smug.

   No one dares to admit how scared they are. How scared we all are.

   

   

   

  
  



	2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

   Truss and I return home two hours before the ceremony begins so we can head there with our parents. As District 3 is one of the larger districts in Panem, checking in all the children and getting everyone in the right spot takes some time.

   The Capitol wants the Hunger Games to be seen as a celebratory event. The districts are supposed to be grateful to the Capitol for keeping Panem together as a functional and peaceful society. We are also supposed to be repentful for ever rebelling against it. It is customary to give presents and eat well on Reaping Day. So, before heading out, we all exchange gifts.

   As we sit at the table, Truss pulls a small wooden box out of his pocket and slides it across the table to our mother.

   “Oh, boys,” she immediately gushes, shyly opening the box.

   “Oh… Oh, boys!” She exclaims once more with a small gasp as she pulls the necklace out, holding it out in front of her to admire.

   “You shouldn’t have...” she murmurs, as if embarrassed, although she is already eagerly unclasping it.

   The necklace is a thin, silver chain with a tear shaped peridot hanging from it. The jewel is tiny. It's even smaller than my pinky nail, but it was still much more money than my brother and I should have spent. The bitterness I had felt while doling out the payment to the jeweler is forgotten though as I watch my mother admire the necklace.

   “It’s my last Reaping Day as a kid… So Caelum and me just thought we’d pool our money together and get you something special,” Truss explains nonchalantly with a shrug. I can tell he's trying to play it off. The small grin on his face shows just how pleased he is with our mother’s reaction though.

   It had taken months of saving up and skipped lunches for the both of us... With our combined efforts, Truss and I had managed to scrape up enough money to buy the necklace. The small gemstone is the most colorful thing in our drab apartment and, in a way, that reminds me of my mother. She has a way of lighting up the room, always managing to be optimistic. Even on the worst days, when we’re all dead tired and the walls of our tiny home seem to be closing in on us, she’s always been able to lift our spirits.

    I’ve never understood how she does it. People are starving to death every day, twenty three children die brutally every year on television, we’re poor and spend nearly every waking hour working… Somehow though, her optimism is infectious. At the very least, it usually gets me through the day.

   As Truss puts the necklace on our mother, I slip my father his gift under the table. A carton of cigarettes that we purchased from Apoc. It’s not much, but it earns a small nod of acknowledgement from him. This is more than we have gotten on other Reaping Days.

   “Well, I wish I would’ve known we were trying to make this year extra-special...” my mother huffs, running a hand through her tangled hair.

   She presents Truss and I each with a vest to wear with our reaping outfits. Mine is a pale green color and Truss’s a dark blue. It is probably the best fitting article of clothing I have.

   “You two are always together so much… I just… I can tell you apart now!” She speaks in her quick, mousy way. Her words are punctured with breathy laughs and her eyes glow with endearment as we both stand before her in our new clothes.

   What she says is true. Being in different grades, I suppose the longest we go without seeing each other is during school hours… But we stand next to each other at the assembly line, we shower together, sleep in the same room, wear the same clothes. We are both tall with dark brown eyes and hair, ashen skin, big, pointy noses and thick eyebrows. Puberty eventually decided that I would remain skinny and wiry, whereas Truss would broaden out.

   I talk enough for the both of us, though Truss doesn’t mind. My presence is acknowledged because I make it so. I feel that if I don’t constantly make myself known, people will forget I exist. The world is a windy place and I’m just a cloud waiting to get blown away. Truss, on the other hand, is solid and immobile. His quiet self assurance is something I’ve always been envious of but unable to mimic.

   -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

   The District Cynosure is in the middle of District 3 and where the reaping is held. Five wide roads lead into it, like arteries used to pump blood out of a heart. Despite being the central hub of District 3, and a rather large area, the Cynosure doesn’t have much besides the Justice Building. It seems like an incomplete project- a cake that was baked but lacks icing.

   When we arrive, it is already swarming with people. Cameras are perched on top of buildings, looking down upon us like haughty birds of prey. Banners hang from buildings to create a festive atmosphere, but they feel like a sad attempt to make a downtrodden, gray place colorful. Both our parents hug us tightly. My mother offers a thin, weak smile though her eyes are gemlike with unshed tears.

   “We’ll be okay, mom.” I assure her with as much confidence I can muster, taking her cold hand and squeezing it.

   The children of District 3 take up most of the space in the Cynosure. A small part of the rest of the population manages to squeeze into the area as well, but most of them fill the streets connected to it. They will view the event from large television screens and speakers that have been set up in them.

   Truss and I check in together and then head into the crowd of children. The oldest are at the front, towards the stage that has been set up in front of the Justice Building, and the youngest at the back. We stop in the swarm of sixteen year olds where I belong.

   Truss turns to me, looking at me expectantly and waiting for me to speak.

   “If you get reaped, I’m gonna push our beds together,” I inform him, putting my hands on my lower back and pretending to crack it. “I’ll finally be able to stretch out.”

   The best defenses I have against the Capitol and the Hunger Games are trying to laugh or get pissed. They work sometimes, but the efforts seem shallow and meaningless now. On the stage are two glass bowls full of the names of the children we stand among. Full of our own names... And two of us in this crowd are probably going to be dead within the next few weeks. A lot of things pale in comparison to that.

   “Shut up,” is all Truss mutters gruffly, though I know he appreciates my effort.

   “I’ll see you at dinner, okay?” I tell him, resting my hand on his shoulder.

   “Yeah. See you at dinner,” he returns. We embrace for a brief moment before he goes to stand at the front with the rest of the eighteen year olds.

   Thanks to my height, I have no difficulty seeing the stage from where I stand. There is a podium with the District 3 seal on it, the two glass bowls, one for the boys’ names and one for the girls’ names, and six chairs. Two of the chairs hold Mayor Vance and Felix Stroeder. Mayor Vance is a short, portly and older woman who waddles instead of walks. Her stern face and no nonsense attitude still demand respect.

   Every year, Felix Stroeder looks different depending on Capitol trends. This year, his head is glabrous and he has a long, dark green beard with yellow highlights that match the penguin tuxedo jacket he wears. He and Mayor Vance make a comical duo as they sit there murmuring to each other. The other four chairs are filled with previous victors from District 3. There is one man named Beetee and three women named Wiress, Copper, and Ora. All of them are older, the youngest being Copper in her early thirties. District 3 has not seen a victor in quite some time.

   No one in the crowd talks to or even acknowledges each other, though we all somehow manage to grow even quieter when the clock strikes two. I spot Apoc a few feet away from me. He's looking clammy and even paler than usual as the mayor stands up and approaches the podium.

   The reapings start every year with Mayor Vance telling the history of Panem. How our nation rose from the ruined ashes of a place called North America after famine, fires, wars, and rising seas. Led by the Capitol, thirteen districts banded together and lived peacefully. Then, the districts revolted. At the end of the war, known as the Dark Days, only twelve districts remained. Our yearly reminder that the Dark Days cannot be repeated comes as the Hunger Games; where each district will provide one boy and one girl to fight to death in an outdoor arena.

   As Mayor Vance speaks, I recall my conversation with Apoc, Niobe, and Switch from earlier. As if making our children kill one another for entertainment isn’t bad enough, the Capitol acts as if it is something that should be celebrated. No matter how much aestheticizing takes place, the message will always remain the same. We are weak. We cannot win. We are here because the Capitol allows us to be. The thought makes me bristle with indignation, but the worst part is that I know it’s true. There is nothing we can do about it. The Hunger Games have taken place for the past 68 years and they will for at least another 68 more.

   “The Hunger Games are a time to be grateful for everything the Capitol has given us, as well as a reminder to never repeat the mistakes of our ancestors…” the mayor laments. Felix nods his head respectfully in the background in agreement.

   After her speech, Mayor Vance lists all our victors. They each stand as their name is spoken. Then Felix Stroeder is introduced. He rises from his chair and strides to the podium, his painted green lips cracking into a wide smile. “Happy Hunger Games!”

     Despite his eccentric appearance, Felix is a pretty boring speaker. His voice is loud, but monotonous. He speaks more with wide gestures, his arms and hands flailing as he speaks.

  His booming voice announces how great it is to be back in District 3 and how excited he is for this year. While I doubt any colorful Capitol citizen wants to be in our smog-ridden district, it could be a lot worse. We’re no career district, but we aren’t dirt poor like 11 or 12. We’ve even had a decent amount of victors. Beetee, Copper, Wiress, and Ora are all our living victors and our fifth one passed away a few years ago.

   “Well, shall we get to the main event?” He questions in an attempt to rally the crowd. We all continue to stare up at him like animals caught in a bright light.

   “Ladies first then,” he announces, gesturing to the bowl to his right, before walking quickly over to it.

   My breath catches in my throat as he shoves his hand deep into the bowl of paper. He makes a dramatic show of digging around, as he does every year. After a solid minute of tortuous silence, Felix finally pulls out a slip of paper with a satisfied smile. Back at the podium, Felix unfolds the piece of paper and all I can think is Please not Niobe or Switch or-

   “Florence Oppernum!”

   He looks to us, beaming and expectant. The name is unfamiliar to me, and for that I am grateful. This gratefulness is immediately followed by a rush of guilt. I know I shouldn’t be happy about anyone being reaped, but I can’t help it. I hear movement behind me and immediately look over my shoulder to see a young girl stepping forward. Her face is pallid and her eyes wide and uncomprehending.

   She stumbles on the stairs before making it to the stage. When she finally stands next to Felix, Florence looks like she’s about to throw up.

   “The boys next.”

   As he walks over to the other glass bowl, I hold my breath. I feel sick. Truss’s name is in that bowl seven times. Mine, five. Together, we have a total of twelve slips out of thousands.

   There’s no way. I reassure myself as Felix reaches into the bowl.

   After a few moments, he pulls a name and is standing back at the podium.

   Sure, there’s a chance, but it’s so slim… So tiny.

   He unfolds the piece of paper and leans closer to the microphone.

   Truss can’t be reaped after this year. That’ll be a real reason to celebrate! We’ll eat dinner, then go to work tomorrow, and-

   “Caelum Walkinshaw!”

   At first, it doesn’t register. I feel the obligatory sadness for the poor chump that’s been reaped… But then it hits me. I am that poor chump.

   The realization makes my blood run cold. My heart does this really weird, acrobatic thing where it jumps up into my throat, leaving me breathless, before dropping to the pit of my stomach, making me feel sick. I can feel faces turning to me, burning me with their gazes.

   My shoes feel like they’re full of lead, but I manage to lift one. Then the other. Then the other. Moving my feet takes all my effort, all my concentration, and I fear that if I lose my focus I will collapse.

   I walk in a jerky rhythm towards the stage. As I move, the sea of people parts for me. Their pitying, relief filled eyes feel like they’re boring holes into me and now I can feel the cameras pointed at me too. My skin is crawling and if Florence had thrown up, I would have completely understood. One foot. Then the next. Then the other.

   All of a sudden, I am looking out at a conglomeration of pale faces and big eyes. Florence and I stand on either side of Felix as he leans in towards the microphone once more.

   “Ladies and gentlemen- I present District 3’s tributes for the 69th Hunger Games!”

   He grabs my hand and raises it into the air with his. I am consumed with the urge to yank my hand away, kick the podium over, and rip off Felix’s wig.

   But then I remember that Felix is bald this year and I am going to die.

  
  


   

   

   

   

  
  



	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to the song Everything Stays from Adventure Time while writing this chapter.

Chapter Three

 

   There is a  scattered, reluctant applause from the crowd, then Felix releases my hand. My arm falls and hangs at my side like a rag doll’s. The sickening realization that I am going to be dead soon feels like a hundred pound weight sitting on my chest.

   I don’t know how long I stand there before a small group of Peacekeepers converges upon us. Florence and I aren’t  handcuffed or even touched. They lead us into the Justice Building swiftly as raindrops began to fall from the gray sky.

   I am deposited in a room much fancier than I have ever been in, the door closing behind me accompanied by the soft _click_ of a lock. The carpet is thick and plush underfoot. There are no windows in the room, the only light source being a beautiful chandelier hanging from the ceiling. I sink into a soft, red couch, placing my hands in my lap and simply staring at the thick wooden door. The notion of running away briefly comes to mind, maybe trying to kick the locked door open- but I  dismiss the idea. Undoubtedly, there will be Peacekeepers waiting on the other side.

   The quiet sounds of the lock and the door opening make me jump but I rise from my seat as my family enters the room.

   I open my mouth to say something, but I find that, for one of the first times in my life, words are faltering on my lips. I have no idea what to say.

My mother rushes over and wraps her arms around me. I bury my face in the crook of her neck. For a brief moment, I feel like a child again. Before I knew school or work or what the Hunger Games were, I only knew the warmth of my mother. As I wrap my arms around her, I long for the days of young, ignorant bliss when I believed I was safe. Before I began spending my life scared, pissed off, and tired.

   And then tears spill over when I hadn’t even realized I was holding them back.

   I feel someone else press against me and I don’t know if it’s my brother or my dad. Sobs begin to wrack my body, making me shudder like thin windows in a storm. We stand there in a huddled mass before finally breaking apart to sit on the couch.

   I sit between my parents and Truss sits on the floor in front of me. All our faces are swollen and damp from crying. With a sniff, I wipe my face with the hand my mother isn’t squeezing in a deathly tight grip.

   It’s common knowledge that tributes get an hour to spend with friends and loved ones before being shipped off to the Capitol. I had never given the tradition much thought though. What are you even supposed to say to the people who raised you when you know it’s your last time seeing them? When you know they’re going to watch you be brutally murdered in a couple of weeks?

   The silence drags on, only punctured by occasional sniffles or the wind outside picking up. Even my mother sits quietly, her lips pressed together and tears dripping down her cheeks and onto her lap. My father is crying silently as well as he stares at the floor. Truss has stopped crying, but he picks at the carpet, his hands shaking. Just like it is District 3’s job to provide electronics for the Capitol, I know it is my job to break the quiet.

   “You guys… You’ll be okay,” I reassure them, though I wince as my voice cracks.

   And as I say it, I know it’s true. If anything, their lives will be easier without me. One less mouth to feed. No more paying for school. They won’t even have to worry about Reaping Day anymore. Hell, I’ve just saved them two more years of agonizing suspension!

   “You’ll get your own room now, Truss,” I point out, earning a mirthless chuckle from my brother.

   “Caelum, don’t say that!” My mother hisses in an uncharacteristically caustic tone, making me flinch. “You… You could come home,” she tries, her voice softening. I can tell she’s just trying to be hopeful for my sake. Like she always is.

   “Mom, some of these kids are _trained_ to kill. I don’t stand a cha-” I begin, the overwhelming sense of hopelessness beginning to boil into anger, before I am cut off.

   “Stop.” My father says, his voice taking us all by surprise. Even _he_ looks surprised that he has spoken.

   He looks confused and embarrassed as we all turn to him, looking to him to say more. He splutters for a moment before continuing. “We aren’t going to talk about… That anymore.”

   I know he’s right. I still don’t know what to say to them as our minutes dwindle down… But I know I don’t want to talk about my death with them.

   “You guys won’t forget me, will you?” I ask weakly after another moment of silence.

   “Honey, of course not,” my mother cooes, taking my cheek in her cold hand.

   All of a sudden, I think of the mysterious girl in my father’s old photo albums. Who is she? Who remembers her? After my father dies, who will remember who she is? Did someone else croon promises of remembrance to her too, only to let her become nothing but a dusty image at the back of a closet?

   “Dad,” I begin, all three of them taken aback by the sudden urgency in my tone. “In your old family photos-”

   Once more I am cut off, but this time it is by the door swinging open and a Peacekeeper entering.

   “Time’s up,” she announces.

   “No, please! A few more minutes!” My mother tries, dissolving into tears again, only to earn another gruff order to leave.

   My mother’s hands fly to her neck, where she removes the necklace my brother and I gifted her this morning. She shoves the necklace into my hand before hugging me tightly.

   “I love you, baby,” she sobs, kissing my cheek before exiting the room in a flurry.

   Next, my father, who has dazedly starting crying again as well, embraces me.

   “Take care of mom,” I instruct him as we pull apart. He nods to me solemnly before leaving, trailing after my mother who I can hear sobbing down the hallway.

   Finally, Truss stands. He has been candidly silent this whole time. I expect a third embrace from my brother, but he instead grabs my face in both his hands. The stormy, seriousness on his face scares me as our eyes meet.

“You’re not dead yet. Quit acting like it.” He says bluntly, ignoring the impatient grunt from the Peacekeeper behind him.

“Truss, you know I can’t win,” I say, my own tears beginning to flow again.

“I know you can try. Now stop crying.”

This is how he speaks. In short, choppy sentences that are direct and to the point. I wonder how he’ll get  along without me. How he’ll deal with the pitying looks he’ll get for the next few months. I can hear the things people will whisper to each other as he walks by now. _See him? His brother got reaped last year… Took an ax to the face in the first three minutes…_

   “I’m just gonna be an old photograph soon,” I sob. The seemingly bizarre comment takes Truss aback, but it prompts him to at last hug me.

   “Stop crying,” he repeats. His tone is gentler now, albeit still stern. “Clean yourself up. Don’t let them see you like this.”

   The Peacekeeper finally stalks over, grabbing Truss by his upper arm and dragging him towards the door.

   “You have to try! Caelum, please, try-” then the door shuts, leaving me alone once more.

   I hear heavy footsteps and crying on the other side of the door, but the sounds fade away. I manage to stagger back to the couch before collapsing in it. The fact that that was the last time I will ever see my family sits heavily in the pit of my stomach. Hot tears well up and blur my vision, but I blink rapidly, scrubbing my eyes with the heels of my palms.

   No. Truss was right. I know that I have to pull myself together. As soon as I leave this building, Capitol cameras will be on me. A tearstained face on every television in the nation will only make me appear a weak target.

   As I rub my face, I realize that my mother’s necklace is still in my hand. I stare down at the little yellowish gemstone, which only brings the urge to cry back stronger than ever. I close my fingers around it and bite down on my knuckles, exhaling heavily as I will the tears away.

Once composed, I clasp the necklace around my neck. It takes a few tries due to my hands shaking. The feeling of the chain against my skin is reassuring and I twist the small gem between my forefinger and thumb.

I wish she hadn’t given it to me. She should have kept it as a token to remember me. I suppose she’ll get it back in a few weeks, when my body, probably horribly maimed, is shipped back to District 3 in a box.

A few more moments pass after I compose myself. I look around the room, fidgeting in my seat, but there is no clock. Despite its luxury, the room is barren and offers me no distractions. I’m about to get up and start pacing when I hear the _click_ and the door opens once more.

I sit up, expecting more familiar faces to file in. Would they make all my friends visit individually? Apoc and Switch could probably pass for siblings, if they tried to visit me as a pair…

But I slump back down in the couch with huff as the Peacekeeper from before stands in the doorway.

“Come on,” she says, beckoning me forward.

“Don’t I have more visitors?” I question, my eyebrows furrowing in confusion. It was difficult to believe that I had spent my entire hour with my family.

“No. Now come on,” her flaring impatience reluctantly brings me to my feet.

As I shuffle through the building behind her, I contemplate my friends. This random Peacekeeper has no reason to lie to or keep visitors from me… So why wouldn’t Apoc and the rest come to visit me? I initially feel sadness and the familiar tightness building up in my chest that comes with crying.

Suddenly though, hurt is replaced with dull, indignant anger. Had any of _them_ been reaped, I would have been at the Justice Building in a heartbeat! Perhaps they had thought what I had thought- that I’m a dead man. What’s the point of speaking with a dead man walking, right? But Truss was right- I wasn’t dead yet.

I reach the doors of the Justice Building where more Peacekeepers are waiting. The female tribute of District 3 joins us shortly. Surrounded by our guards, we are ushered outside and into a car. In the few steps between the building and the vehicle, she and I have gotten soaked by the heavy rain.

Part of me wants to introduce myself to her, but I manage to bite my tongue. The few glances I stole of her revealed red rimmed, watery eyes and a nose dripping snot. I know that this car ride will be one of the last few moments of privacy we get, so I decide to let us both enjoy it.

I’ve never been in a car before, and the crampedness of the backseat reminds me of my home. The only time I’ve ridden in a vehicle was in one of the large, crowded buses. They travel from one end of District 3 to the other all day. I didn't use them often though, since work and school were within walking distance. The whole ride, we both stare out our respective windows in silence. I am surprised by how empty my head is as I watch rain droplets race each other down the tinted glass, some of them melding together.

Peacekeepers open the car door once we pull up to the train station. Cameras are perched everywhere, with big plastic coverings on them to protect them from water. I see Felix Stroeder standing under an umbrella, speaking with a cameraman and looking disgruntled. Some of his eye makeup has begun to run due to the weather. The green streaks now running down his cheeks make him look even scarier than before.

Instead of getting soaked this time, the girl- I remember her name is Florence- and I are handed umbrellas. We are instructed to stand in front of the doors of the train, I can vaguely hear Felix encouraging us to smile, and the cameras converge upon us.

I stand there, shifting the umbrella against my shoulder for lack of anything better to do. Cameras circle us like giant insects, trying to find the best angles. All I can think is that I hope it’s not too obvious that I had been crying. Everyone will see this footage, including the other tributes and potential sponsors in the Capitol.

I remember the boy from District 10 last year. In this exact shot, he had been sobbing hysterically. I remember the pity that had twisted my stomach as I watched the footage, knowing the boy as a goner…

And a small, sudden resolution comes over me. I don’t want anyone to feel that way about me.

Somehow, I managed to smile at the cameras. I can hear praise from Felix from off to the side and I even raise a hand in greeting.

“Perfect. That’s great, Caelum!” Felix booms before rounding on the camera crew. “Come on, that’s enough now. I can’t stand this rain any longer,” he grumbles the last bit, waving his hand to get the door to the train to open.

The cameras wilt like dying flowers and pull back away from us. My hand and smile immediately drop with them.

“Hurry inside, children. We’ve got a long trip.” Felix says with a wide, green smile as he closes his umbrella and leads us onto the train. I glance over my shoulder, hoping for one last glimpse of my home. I see the gray buildings for less than a moment before the door slides closed.

 

   

 

   

   

 

   

   

  



	4. Chapter Four

 

     As soon as the door closes behind us, we begin our journey. The launch jolts the whole train and I stumble, instinctively grabbing Florence’s shoulder in front of me for purchase. With the way she turns her head to stare at me, I may as well just have slapped her across the face.

     “I’m sorry,” I mutter and immediately retract my hand, as if the contact had burned me. Florence turns away without a word to follow behind Felix.

     Florence is at least a foot shorter than me and, like myself, looks like a typical District 3 child. Ashen skin, dark hair and eyes. Her hair hangs in a plain cut at her chin, though I notice the unique splatter of freckles across her cheeks.

     As Felix leads us down the train, he lists the latest Capitol technologies that have been installed. Able to speed along its track at 250 miles per hour, we will be able to arrive back at the Capitol in less than a day (this fact makes me feel sick). Florence and I will each have our own bedroom and bathroom on the train full of the finest clothes, towels, soaps, and shampoos at our disposal. He sounds quite proud, though I’m not exactly sure why. I doubt Felix Stroeder contributed anything to the construction of this train.

     I am left to my own devices in my chambers with an invitation from Felix to do whatever I please, but to be ready for dinner in an hour. There’s so much space, I don’t even know what to do with it all. The mattress I sit on is over half the size of the bedroom I shared with my brother.

   Despite already showering today, I decide to take another one in the luxurious bathroom. The water is immediately hotter than my shower back home ever got and I spend a good while just standing under the spray. When I finally decide to actually wash up, there are more shampoos and soaps than I have ever fathomed existed.

     Instead of being impressed by them, their labels only serve to make me feel self conscious. They promise cures for things that I don’t know what they are- _split ends_ , _large pores, acrochordon_ \- and claim to contain _burnt brown sugar, argan oils,_ and other ingredients things I can’t even pronounce. I end up scrubbing my scalp with a bright blue bottle that proclaims _Dull Hair Is Done!_ and watching the suds swirl down the drain before exiting the shower. A stack of extraordinarily fluffy towels awaits me and I snatch one up to dry off with before wrapping it around my waist.

     I only remember my mother’s necklace hanging around my neck when I walk past a mirror. The sight of it makes me stop to consider my reflection. My hair doesn’t look any less dull… But the shower washed away any trace of crying that had been left on my face. I try to force a smile, as I had with ease for the cameras, but my facial muscles refuse to cooperate. I’m left sort of grimacing at myself.

     The memory of me smiling and waving at the camera makes me cringe. I can only imagine what my family and everyone else back home will think of the footage once it airs- what they will think of _me_ …

_But that doesn’t matter,_ a small voice inside me whispers. _They’re not going to be the ones sending you supplies in the arena. The people in the Capitol will though, if they like you_.

     Like the shower, the clothes in the dresser are definitely a step up from my possessions back home. I had always been jealous of Truss’s clothes, as I always got his handmedowns... But pulling on the yellow button-up and slacks gives me no satisfaction. I’d gladly wear all my brother’s old clothes for the rest of my life if it meant I’d never been reaped.

     Washed and dressed, I flop onto the bed and bury my face in the comforter. I suppose if I’m going to cry again, now’s the time to do it before I have to focus on training, with people constantly watching me… But no tears come.

     I reason that it may be due to shock. But honestly- what would be the point of crying anymore? I’ve reaped. So what? Twentythree other kids were reaped today too. Just like twentyfour had been reaped last year and twentyfour more would be reaped next year. It seemed as if crying with my family had been sufficient enough for me.

     It didn’t take long for someone to knock at my door before entering. I don’t know how much time has passed, but I am still lying facedown on the bed. I rolled onto my side to observe Felix standing in my doorway. His reapplied makeup is no longer in grotesque streaks down his face.

     “Sorry for waking you-” Felix begins, but I cut him off.

     “I wasn’t sleeping.”

     “Ah... “ There’s an awkward silence. “Well… Dinner is ready! Come along. Beetee and Ora are excited to meet this year’s tributes!” My blunt interruption seems to have taken Felix aback and demurred him, but he shortly regains his peppiness.

     I reluctantly climb out of bed and follow Felix through the corridor to a dining room. A chandelier hangs over a long, rectangular table with a fine dining cloth over it. It's covered with an obscene amount of food, all of it smelling delicious and foreign. The sight of it makes my stomach growl and reminds of how hungry I am. A man and a woman are already seated and I can see the both of them regarding me cautiously as I take a seat across from them. Felix excuses himself to go fetch Florence, leaving me alone with my fellow District 3 citizens.

     “Hello, Caelum,” Beetee greets me with a curt nod.

     Beetee, our oldest living victor, is in his late 40s, with washed out, olive skin. Despite the age lines on his face and the thick glasses perched on his nose, his dark eyes still glow with a honed intelligence that intimidates me.

     “Hello, sweetie. I’m Ora," the woman introduces herself with a small smile, sticking out a hand with short, thick fingers like sausages that I shake across the table.

     While the rerun’s of Ora’s games on television depict a thin waft of a girl, the older woman in front of me is heavyset and wide. The graying roots of her hair stand out starkly against the rest of the dark, thick mass that falls beneath her shoulders. It’s difficult to imagine the torpid woman, who looks more like a kindly old neighbor than anything, killing the last few tributes in her games.

     She had spent most of her time in the arena hiding, as per District 3’s usual motif. Only she and two careers remained. The young Ora had tied a length of barely visible metal wire between two trees and then goaded the other tributes to chase after her. All three of them hurtling at full speed, Ora had ducked under the wire. The other two kids hadn’t been so wise. One girl had been completely decapitated. Her partner in crime, a much shorter girl, had been practically scalped. Ora finished that job with an ax before being declared victor.

     “Congratulations, Caelum,” Ora said, he thick lips twisting into a wry smile and Beetee giving a small snort at her comment.

     “I don’t really feel like I should be congratulated on anything,” I admit uneasily, returning Ora’s grin with a small, hesitant one of my own.

     As with Felix, my boldness seems to take Ora and Beetee by surprise, but Beetee is better at hiding it. Ora blinks brown eyes that appear too small for her broad face and raises her eyebrows before breaking out into raspy giggles.

     “I suppose you don’t,” she finally concedes once her small laughing fit is over, reaching over. She reaches over and pats my hand sympathetically.

     When the door opens, revealing Felix and Florence, we all go silent. The small bit of mirth that had somehow manifested in the room dissipates. Florence looks even worse than she did at the train station. Unlike me, she hadn’t showered or changed. Her entire face is puffy and her eyes red from crying, her cheeks still damp with tears.

     The quiet, calculating looks return to Beetee and Ora’s faces as Florence takes a seat next to me. Felix stands at the head of the table. He clears his throat to get our attention before speaking, his arms spread as if he were addressing a large crowd and not just four somber faces.

     “Happy 69th Hunger Games! Florence, Caelum-,” he turned his painted face to us, “congratulations on being chosen for this experience of a lifetime. You both have been bestowed with the task of carrying on one of, if not _the_ , greatest traditions in this great nation of Panem.”

     He then rounded on Beetee and Ora, flashing his blanched teeth at them in what I think is supposed to be a smile.

     “And our victors!” Felix greeted them like old friends, but the both of them were regarding him with cool indifference. “It is my great pleasure to see you again. I have no doubt you will both offer excellent and insightful advice to your respective tributes this year. While I’m sure you’re all extremely eager to begin talking strategy, I believe a proper dinner is in order first!” With that, Felix took his seat.

     I didn’t need any encouragement to begin loading my plate. I had never gone hungry back home, but I had never been full either. I fill a bowl with a steamy stew that contains a creamy broth and some unknown, pale meat and put one of the biggest steaks I have ever seen in my life on my plate. I figure that gaining a few pounds between now and the games can’t hurt me much.

     The tinkling of silverware and chewing fills the quiet until, once more, Felix breaks it.

     “Caelum, that color looks fantastic on you,” he compliments.

     “Thanks…” I say shortly through a mouthful of food, glancing down at the shirt I have on.

     “With your complexion, I never would have thought to put you in yellow. I think the hue sort of gives you a statement of district pride too. Yes, quite a nice and bold choice…” He takes a bite of steak and chews and swallows before continuing, “You’ve already made your first impressions at the reaping and the train- you did wonderfully, by the way, Caelum- but the first impression you make _in person_ will be just as important! Florence, maybe we can dress you in yellow as well..?”

     Beetee and Ora continue to eat and look down at their food, but I see their eyes flash to Florence as she's addressed.

     Florence has only put a small helping of mashed potatoes fish on her plate. None of it looks touched. Her large, dark eyes are fixed down on her lap and she looks on the verge of tears again. She gives no indication that she has heard Felix. My gaze flickers between Florence and Felix and I wonder which one of them will cave first.

     A frustrated looking Felix does.

     “Your stylist will be in charge of your wardrobe once we get to the Capitol, if you aren’t feeling up to it. Your first impression won’t be as nice, but I suppose your dress is… _Quaint_.” He says with an exasperated sigh and a wave of his hand.

     Felix’s dismissive impatience with Florence rubs me the wrong way. I look to Beetee and Ora, hoping that they may come to her defense, but they are both focused back on their meals.

     “I think she looks fine,” the statement comes from my mouth before I can consider it. I press my lips together, as if they make stop me from speaking out again.

     All eyes are on me now, even Florence’s watery gaze, and some color has come to Felix’s pale face.

     “I’m sure you do, Caelum,” Felix replies in a voice oozing with condescending. “And Florence does like fine- for District 3. I understand you must be tense, so let’s not blow this out of proportion, hm? I’m only trying to help you two.”

     I had never particularly liked Felix Stroeder. Why would I? He was the man who came every year and stole two children away to the Capitol to be slaughtered- like some sort nightmarish shepherd. On stage, he always claims to be happy to be back in District 3, but his disparaging tone was contradictory to that. Cracks in his mask are appearing and I am now pretty sure that I hate Felix Stroeder.

     The moment passes and we all continue eating. The rest of the meal is consumed in silence, besides occasional sniffles from Florence.

     Her weakness only resolves my strength. Everyone throughout Panem will pity (or mock) Florence, but ultimately dismiss her. Kids like Florence, who can’t even bring themselves to shower, change their clothes, or eat after being reaped, don’t win the Hunger Games.

     At the end of the meal, tongueless avoxes come to clear the table. I can’t help but wonder what they’ll do with the leftover food. The thought of them throwing it all out makes my stomach churn. People are starving all over the nation, but I don’t know what else they would do with it.

     Felix glances down at his watch before standing from the table. “Are you all ready to watch the reaping ceremonies? You’ll have to begin sizing up your competition!” His wide, white smile is plastered on his face once more.

     Beetee and Ora rise soundlessly from their chairs and I follow their lead, Florence lagging behind us. Since all five of us have been together, Beetee and Ora have been like ghosts. Despite their Victor statuses, it’s seems that Felix is the leader of this ragtag bunch, which worries me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was sort of long, so I split it into two chapters. The next chapter will be posted next week :)


	5. Chapter Five

Chapter 5

   We are led to lounge room with a couch and television screen larger than my family’s dining table. Despite how uneasy he makes me, I decide to sit next to Felix. I do this to save Florence from sitting next to him and because it can’t hurt to get on his good side. I don’t like him, but Felix has an important understanding of the Capitol audience that I don’t. He appears pleased by this, and gives me an excited clap on the back as he turns on the television.

Districts 1 and 2 are what I expect; fearsome kids who look like they could kill me in an instant. Their dumb, cruel eyes glow with pride at being reaped. All of them seem doggedly stupid, except the girl from 1, whom I am sure will have no trouble winning over the Capitol with her good looks. While the other three are definitely fierce looking, she looks downright predatory.

  Watching myself get reaped on the large screen is surreal. Despite seeing myself take place in the ceremony, I find that I don’t remember any of it. Hearing my name called, my trek to the stage, looking out at the crowd... I do look terrified though. Thankfully, when they cut to Florence and I boarding the train, nearly all traces of my tears had disappeared. My on-screen wave at the camera earns another proud clap on the back from Felix.

  The District 4 kids are just as imposing as the other career tributes. The boy from District 5 is only twelve years old and starts crying once he realizes his name has been called. Only a few of the rest of the tributes stand out to me.

  The boy from 9 lumbers onto the stage looking dazed, dumb, and nondescript. The girl is striking though. Her platinum blond hair frames a pale face with large blue eyes and pretty, downturned lips. Standing next to her fellow, uninspired tribute, she looks like a creature of unearthly beauty. Even Felix comments that if they take the right angle with her, she could easily become a fan favorite.

   “Which is rare, for 9,” he says.

  Another tribute in 11 stands out for similar reasons. The boy has beautiful, light brown skin. His complexion is so smooth and clear that I can’t help but envy it. His eyes are almond shaped and a beautiful golden brown. With a wardrobe change, it would be easy to imagine him in a commercial for one of the bizarre Capitol beauty products in my bathroom.

  As usual, District 12 is perhaps the most dismal. All the children in their tiny town square always look half-starved and terrified. This year is no exception. The boy and the girl who are reaped have the same last name. My mouth hangs open at the thought of siblings facing each other in the arena. The commentators are quick to inform the audience that the two are cousins. I don't have any cousins, but the news still doesn't sit well with me. The commentators begin to discuss how this family dynamic may impact the game.

  “There are a lot of good looking tributes this year,” Felix comments after the national anthem plays and the television is off.

“They’re just children,” Ora spoke softly, but her voice and eyes are as hard as stone as she looks at Felix with undisguised loathing. This is the first time I’ve heard her speak in front of him.

“I  _ know _ , Ora,” Felix sighs, his voice reclaiming the dismissive, annoyed tone he had spoken to Florence with, “but that doesn’t mean they can’t be attractive.”

He spoke with the air of someone explaining a basic fact to a toddler for the umpteenth time.

“ _ Anyways _ ,” he shouldered onwards, “Beetee, you will be mentoring Caelum this year. Ora, you will work with Florence. As you mentors, they will be responsible for guiding you through your training. I’m sure they have vital advice to offer you as well. Beetee and Ora, and myself, will also try to win you sponsors once you’re in the arena.”

As Felix speaks, Ora places a comforting hand on Florence’s knee. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Beetee watching me. I try to offer him a half-smile, but the gesture is not returned. My lips quickly fall and I return my gaze to our escort.

Felix has gone silent and is looking to us all, as if he is expecting us to get excited by this news. The quiet drags on for a few moments until Ora speaks.

“Why don’t we go get washed up, dear?” She says softly, taking Florence’s hand and pulling her up from the couch.

As soon as the two women leave, Beetee’s intense gaze shifts from me to Felix, as if he were trying to nonverbally force the man out of the room. I feel an unspoken tension flare up between them. They sit in an uncompromising silence, and I am in the middle of it.

“Caelum-” Felix begins, but Beetee cuts him off before he can even finish saying my name.

“Felix, could I please have some time alone with my tribute? I believe you have completed your duties as an escort for the day.”

Felix’s pale cheeks flush at Beetee’s request, as if he has taken offense to it. His painted lips open and close a few times like a fish out of water’s before he holds up both hands, as if in surrender.

“Alright,” he places his hand on my shoulder again and there it lingers. “Caelum, you can come find me if you wish to talk later. My room is the last one on the left in the same hall as your’s. Don’t stay up too late. You have a big, big day ahead of you tomorrow!” And with a squeeze to my shoulder and a curt nod to Beetee, Felix leaves.

“How screwed am I?” I sigh once we are alone, slumping against the couch.

“You’re not,” Beetee replies.

I raise my eyebrows at him incredulously in response, prompting him to continue.

“I cannot guarantee your safety, Caelum. In fact, one of the many axioms of the games is danger. I can only offer you my advice, and I suggest you heed it.”

Beetee pauses for a moment, as if waiting for me to speak. When I stay silent, he continues.

“Can you tell me what the rest of District 3’s victors and myself have in common?”

His eyes, almost comically magnified by his glasses, bore into me. I squirm in my seat as I try to think. I feel like I’m back in school and the teacher has called on me to answer a question while I wasn’t paying attention.

“You… You all spent most of your games hiding..?” I venture tentatively.

“Correct, but not just hiding- waiting for the right time to strike. Take my conversation with Felix a few moments ago as an example. If you don’t speak, or strike, first, it is more difficult to be interrupted.”

While I would hardly classify their encounter a ‘conversation’, I suppose Beetee does have a point. As soon as Felix had begun speaking, Beetee easily seized the moment from him.

“Dropping the act you’ve already begun putting on would be my next piece of advice,” he continues, removing his glasses to clean them on his shirt before placing them back on his nose.

“What  _ act _ ?” I ask defensively, sitting up straighter.

“What act?” Beetee echoes, this time raising his brows at me. “Your wave and smile at the camera. Your yellow shirt,” he gestures to my outfit, making me feel self conscious.

“District 3 does not win by pandering to the audience. You need to lie low for the next few weeks and hope the other tributes forget about you. Just your wave will have drawn unnecessary attention. If Felix Stroeder thinks that what you are doing is a good idea, that is a sign that you should stop immediately,” he ends on a disparaging note.

Beetee is intimidating. Not physically, as I stand a good few inches taller than him, but I know his intellect is unmatched. While Ora’s trap with the guillotine wire was clever, Beetee’s was lethally ingenious. Ora’s wire had failed to kill one of the girls who were chasing her, but Beetee’s electrical trap had killed six tributes instantly without a hitch.

I try to imagine the aging man in front of me killing six kids at once, but I can’t. It’s my lack of imagination the allows me to lose my inhibitions.

“Well, have you ever  _ tried _ ?” I demand. I see his large eyes blink behind his glasses at my audacity.

“I mean, _ laying low _ didn’t exactly work for those kids last year- or even the year before that. We haven’t had a victor in over a decade!”

We both know I’ve stated undeniable facts. For the past two years in a row, both the male and female tributes from District 3 have been slaughtered in the initial bloodbath. They were brushed over by the commentators, their interviews forgettable, their performance scores low. For the most part, District 3 is like that every year- and I’ve never seen District 3 tribute win in my lifetime.

“Beetee, I don’t want to die like that,” my voice starts off strong, but I wince as it cracks.

“I know.”

Dark storm clouds have obscured Beetee’s face, leaving him unreadable. His fingers are pressed against each other to form a pyramid that hovers at his chin. A small part of me feels guilty for bringing up past tributes. It’s hard enough watching two kids, usually strangers, from my district die every year. I can’t fathom how difficult it must be to get to know those people, to try and help them before they get brutally massacred. 

“I’m sorry,” I stammer. “You weren’t even a mentor last year and-”

Beetee cuts me off by raising a hand. In silence, he lowers his it back into its pyramid position. His eyes are fixed on something past me, something unseen, and I swallow thickly. I had figured it would be smart to get on Felix’s good side, but here I was- picking fights with my  _ mentor _ , my  _ lifeline _ .

_ Maybe you should’ve thought about getting on Beetee’s bad side, huh? _

“I’m s-” I begin again, but he interrupts me.

“It’s fine, Caelum,” he speaks quietly, still staring past me. “I understand your fears- I sincerely do- though I am afraid I stand behind my opinion on your presentation. Felix was correct about one thing; you do have an eventful day ahead of you. Try to get some rest. We can continue this discussion tomorrow.”

The finality with which he speaks makes it clear that the discussion is over for now. We continue to sit for a few moments longer before I stand silently and leave.

Back at my room, I find a slip of paper has been pushed under my door. In small, immaculate handwriting is a list of beauty products, their purposes, and brief instructions on how to use them.

The bottom is signed ‘ _ Felix Stroder _ ’ in big, loopy cursive.

I am torn between insult, unease, and amusement at the message.

It is the sight of the large mattress that makes my exhaustion hit me like a train. Tomorrow will be my first day in the Capitol. I will meet my stylist and the opening ceremonies will take place.

I sit down on the edge of my bed and run my fingers through my hair with a heavy sigh. Hopefully, Beetee will forgive me… Even if we don’t see eye to eye on my presentation, he undoubtedly has valuable insight I’ll need. Even if I make it past the bloodbath though, I doubt I’ll be able to survive without help…

It appears that Felix isn’t the leader I assumed he was. Now that we’re actually talking about the games, Beetee and Ora have both been overtly recalcitrant towards him. Felix has been the escort for District 3 as long as I can remember. It isn’t too absurd to believe that some incident has driven a wedge between him and the victors years ago to cause their strained relationship. Whatever it is, I just don’t want it to hurt my chances in the games.

Beetee and Felix were both right about at least one thing; I do need to get some rest.

As I brush my teeth in the bathroom, I search for the acne cream and teeth whitening strips Felix prescribed for me.

\------

“Good morning, Caelum!” Felix’s booming voice, accompanied by knuckles rapping against the door, rouses me from sleep.

I manage to force a groan out in response. Trying to block it out, I pull the covers over my head. A part of me waits for Truss to rip the blanket off like he usually does. Maybe the reaping was just one long, horrible nightmare..?

“Time to rise! We’ve got a big day ahead of us!”

My nightmare is confirmed to be my reality. 

I roll out of the bed in my t-shirt and boxers. I’m two steps from leaving the room like this when I remember that I’m no longer at home. I’m not sure how much all of these strangers would appreciate the view. 

Instead, I alter course and grab Felix’s product list off the bedside table before heading to the bathroom. I pick out the shower products he’s written down and set them aside before climbing under the hot spray. When I’m done, I apply the facial and body moisturizers, cuticle cream, lip scrub, and other recommended products. By the end of it, I smell sickeningly sweet and my skin crawls.

I rummage through the drawers of clothes before pulling out a yellow pinstripe shirt and dark khaki pants.

Beetee and Felix are sitting at the table already when I arrive in the dining cart. Felix praises my outfit. Beetee stays silent besides a simple “Good morning”. As usual, his face is pensive and unreadable.

I wait for Beetee to mention my wardrobe, but he doesn’t. I assume this means he has conceded defeat on the issue.

“We will arrive in the Capitol in about two hours. I’m sure you’re excited for the opening ceremonies! Maxima- your head stylist- is absolutely wonderful! I have no doubt she’s come up with something  _ fantastic _ for you to wear tonight. There’s going to be a lot of prep, so…”

Felix continues talking, but I tune him out as I put poached eggs, bacon, sausages and chunks of some mysterious fruit I can’t identify on my plate. When he seems finished, I speak up.

“I know all this presentation stuff is important to get sponsors, but sponsors aren’t gonna mean much if I can’t even survive in the arena. I need some some advice on  _ that _ .”

Felix sputters before agreeing, “Yes, of course. I suppose I’ve gotten a little carried away with you. It’s just that I rarely get a tribute from District 3 who cares about their presentation at all!” 

“I am glad you brought up survival, Caelum,” Beetee finally speaks, scooting his chair closer to the table. “Survival is another key to winning. You will need to learn how to find food, water, start a fire to keep warm. There have been years where more tributes are killed by starvation, dehydration, and exposure than each other. Knowing how to kill won’t mean anything if you can’t provide for yourself.” 

“I’ve never started a fire in my life,” I lament, pushing a piece of fruit around my plate.

“Most tributes haven’t,” Beetee assures me, but it doesn’t make me feel better. “You will have plenty of time to learn. I suggest spending your time in the training center learning basic survival skills. The careers have spent their whole lives training. Get comfortable using a few weapons, but it’s impossible to catch up to their skill level in this short amount of time.” 

I only give a huff in response. It’s like that every year. The careers hunting down the rest of the tributes one by one until only the six of them remain. The past few years, they’ve been particularly vicious. I recall watching a girl from District 2 rip out the final tribute’s throat with her bare teeth… The brother and sister duo from District 1 winning in consecutive years. And, of course, who could forget District 4’s charming Finnick Odair from just four years ago? Netting his opponents before doling out death with his trident. 

The last non-career tribute I can remember winning is District 8 girl named Cecelia, in the 61st Hunger Games. I was eight years old.

“What did you do back home, Caelum?” Beetee asks, pulling me from my thoughts.

“I just worked on the assembly line… I made PCB boards. My brother and I helped load the trucks sometimes.”

Though he tries to remain impassive, I can tell Beetee is less than impressed. He and Ora both were from the more affluent, engineering area of District 3. Beetee and the other victors… They were all borderline geniuses when they entered the games as teenagers. I was a straight D student. 

My parents have worked in the same factory their entire lives. Truss joined them when he turned 15 and so did I. I had intended on working there my whole life. What was the point of an education? My job training would teach me everything I’d need to know. 

For the first time since I left my family, I can feel the hopelessness welling up inside me. It comes so abruptly, I am helpless to defend myself against it. My chest grows grows tight, as if my despair is a tangible weight sitting on top of it. I think of my parents, my tiny, lumpy mattress back home, the gray skies and factories. The sudden onslaught of memories is overwhelming. 

The table becomes blurred as tears corrupt my vision, but I quickly blink them away before they can fall. 

I want to give up. Yellow shirts, waving, smiling, starting fires… Just like with school- what was the point? I am doomed and I am foolish for forgetting that last night. I want to slink back to my room and curl up back under the blanket.

My promise to Truss rings in my ears. I promised him I would try. If he saw me randomly breaking down at this inopportune moment, when Beetee was trying to tell me how to survive, he’d be angry.

“Sorry,” I sniff, pressing the heels of my palms against my eyes hard until I see splotches of colors against my eyelids. Beetee and Felix have politely averted their gazes during my mini-meltdown, but I am determined to regain myself. 

“What else should I know, Beetee?”

  
  



End file.
